His feet slipped on wet brickwork and he swung wildly, skinning his knuckles and bruising his shoulder painfully and then his legs banged against the pipe.
He sat on it, legs astride, and pulled the rope down, coiling it again, then he started across. The narrow pipe cut into his crotch and he moved painfully on, pushing away the thought of the cobbles forty feet below, concentrating on the task in hand. Was it now, or was it three years previously? There was no way of telling and life seemed a circle turning upon itself endlessly. His fingers touched stone and he looked up to see the darker line of the wall against the sky.
He carefully stood up, reached for the rusty spikes and pulled himself on top. With hardly a pause, he uncoiled the rope, looped it around a couple of spikes and went over the edge, using the same double strand technique as in descending from the hospital roof. A few moments later he dropped ten feet into wet grass at the foot of the wall, pulling the rope down after him.
He was soaked to the skin and for a moment he lay there, his face in the coolness of the wet grass and then he scrambled to his feet. He coiled the nylon rope quickly, hooked it over his head, turned and moved quickly away through the darkness.
Remembering his previous experience, he gave the married quarters a wide berth, striking up the hillside to the open moor and the quarry.
Darkness was his friend and five minutes later he reached the crest of the valley and paused to look back. Below in the hollow the prison lay like some primeval monster crouching in the darkness, shapeless, without form, a yellow light gleaming here and there and at its feet the houses crouched.
Rogan was suddenly filled with a fierce exhilaration. He laughed out loud, turned and started to run across the moor. It took him fifteen minutes to reach the quarry and beyond it, the river, swollen by rain, tumbled over boulders in the darkness.
Halfway across the iron footbridge, he paused and tossed the rope, screwdriver and wirecutters into the foam. Somehow there was a finality about the act. This time there would be no going back. He ran across the bridge and moved along the bank, and a few moments later the lights of the cottage gleamed through the dark trees of the wood.
4
It was cold in the stone-flagged kitchen and Jack Pope shivered involuntarily as he piled logs into the crook of one arm. He moved back along the passage and went into the living room of the small cottage.
Flames flickered across the oak-beamed ceiling, casting fantastic shadows that writhed and twisted convulsively and he piled more logs on to the already large fire.
He went to the dresser, took down a bottle of whisky and half filled a glass.
Outside the wind moaned, driving the rain against the window with the force of lead shot and he shivered, remembering the place on the other side of the hill beyond the river where he had spent five years of his life. He emptied the glass quickly, coughing as the raw spirit burned its way down his throat, and reached for the bottle again.
There was no sound, and yet a small cold wind touched him gently on the right cheek. He turned slowly, the hair rising on the nape of his neck.
Rogan stood in the doorway, shirt and pants plastered to his body, moulding his superb physique, rain mingling with the dust from the ventilating shafts, washing over him in a patina of filth.
And Jack Pope knew fear, real primeval fear that loosened the very bowels in him so that in the presence of this strange, dark man he was like a frightened child, completely dominated by some elemental force he couldnt even comprehend.
He moistened his dry lips and forced a ghastly smile. You made it, Irish. Good for you.
Rogan crossed the room, soundlessly, took the glass from Popes hand and poured the whisky down in one quick swallow. He closed his eyes, took a long breath and opened them again.
What time is it?
Pope glanced at his watch. Just after half past eight.
Good, Rogan said. I want to be out of here by nine. Is there a bath?
Pope nodded eagerly. Ive had the water heating all afternoon.
Clothes?
Laid out in the bedroom. What about something to eat?
Rogan shook his head. No time. If youve got a vacuum flask fill it with coffee and make a few sandwiches. I can eat them on the way.
Okay, Irish, anything you say. The baths at the end of the passage.
Rogan turned abruptly and went out, and immediately the forced smile was wiped from Popes face. Who the hell does he think he is, the big stinking Mick. God, how I wish I could turn him in.
He went into the kitchen, put the kettle on the stove, then he rummaged in a drawer till he found a bread-knife, took down a loaf and started viciously to cut it into slices.
The bathroom was a recent extension to the rear of the cottage and the bath itself was small. Not that it mattered. Rogan filled it with hot water, stripped off his wet clothes and climbed in. For a brief moment only he sat there enjoying the warmth, then he started to wash the filth from his body. Five minutes later, he stepped out, dried himself quickly, then went along the passage to the bedroom, a towel about his waist.
He found everything he needed laid out neatly across the bed. Underclothing, shirts, even the shoes were the right size and the two-piece suit in Glencarrick thorn-proof looked as if it had been made to measure. There was also a battered rain hat and an old trenchcoat. A nice touch that, he had to admit, however grudgingly. He took them with him when he returned to the living room.
Pope followed him in from the kitchen carrying a large vacuum flask and a tin biscuit box. Sandwiches are inside; itll save you having to stop.
And just where am I supposed to be going?
OMore wants to see you.
Where do I find him?
Pope shrugged. God knows. Ive been working through an accommodation address in Kendal. Do you know where that is?
The Lake District, isnt it? Westmorland?
Thats right. Youre in for a long drive. Its all of three hundred and fifty miles from here and youve got to be there by seven in the morning.
Which was the precise moment at which they would be turning out the cells at the prison and Rogan smiled slightly. They were hardly likely to be looking for him in a place like Kendal. It would take them at least three days to realize that hed got off the moor and even then they wouldnt be sure.
Why seven?
Because thats the time youre being picked up. You drive into the car park of the Woolpack Inn thats in Stricklandgate and wait.
Who for?
I honestly dont know. As I said, Ive been writing to an accommodation address in Kendal. Maybe its just a jumping off place to somewhere else.
Rogan shook his head. Not good enough, Pope. You wouldnt go into anything blindfold.
Its the truth, Irish, as Gods my judge. Ill admit I opened my mouth about that escape of yours when I got out and the word must have got around among the boys. You know how these things are.
What about Soames, the lawyer.
Been disbarred for the past five years. A villain down to the soles of his feet. He came to see me a couple of weeks ago. Said a client of his had heard this rumour about you having a way out and theyd traced it to me. It didnt take him long to get down to brass tacks. Hes a downy bird.
And whats your cut?
For setting this little lot up? A couple of centuries and my expenses.
Rogan helped himself to a cigarette from a packet on the table and lit it, an abstracted frown on his face. On the face of it, it didnt make sense not any of it. And yet Colum was as cunning as a fox. It would be like him to cover his tracks again, making any direct route to him difficult to find.
All right, for the moment, Ill buy it, he said. How do I get to Kendal?
Pope produced a small white folder and grinned. Nothing like being efficient, so I went to the top. Got you an A.A. route guide. It starts at Exeter and takes you straight through to Kendal.
He went over it quickly, indicating the route on the excellent sketch maps provided. At Exeter, Rogan would pick up the A38 and follow it through Bristol and Gloucester. From there, the new M5 motorway would take him north past Worcester and Birmingham, joining the M6 for the long run up through Lancashire to the Lake District.
Youll find some sections of the motor-ways are still under construction, Pope said, but on the whole, you should have a pretty clear run.
What kind of car have you got for me?
Nothing special. A Ford brake, two years old but the engines perfect. Ive had it checked. Youll find a few samples of animal feed in the back. Youre supposed to be a salesman for an agricultural firm. He picked up a briefcase and produced various documents. Heres a couple of printed business cards in the name of Jack Mann and a driving licence. Hope you can still remember how.
Rogan shrugged. Ill get by.
There were insurance papers and log book, all in the same name. Even an Automobile Association membership card. Rogan tucked them all into his inside breast pocket.
You seem to have thought of everything.
We aim to please. Pope took out a worn leather wallet and passed it across. Youll find forty quid in there. No sense in carrying more. If you were stopped and searched it would only excite suspicion.
The police mind, Rogan said. You can never get away from it, can you?
Pope flushed, but managed to force a smile. Thats about it. He glanced at his watch. Almost nine. Youd better be on your way.
Rogan pulled on the trenchcoat, belted it around his waist and picked up his hat. They went out through the kitchen and Pope flicked on an outside light, opened the door and led the way across the small courtyard to an old barn. He opened a large door, and two cars were revealed.
One of them was a large dark shooting brake, the other a green saloon. Rogan paused in the entrance, looking at them.
Two? he said.
Well how in the hell do you think Im going to get out of here at this time of night? Pope said. It was bad enough having to walk five miles to the nearest bus stop yesterday after driving out here in the Ford. I picked up the saloon in Plymouth this morning.
Which was a good story had it not been for the fact that the wheels of both vehicles were still damp and muddy from the days rain.
Rogan let it pass. Id better be on my way.
Pope nodded. Make sure its the right one. No detours to Holyhead for the Irish boat.
Rogan turned very slowly, his face quite expressionless. And what would you be meaning by that?
Pope forced a smile. Nothing, Irish, nothing. Its just that the Big Mans invested a lot of money in you. Hes entitled to see some return.
The next moment, a hand had him by the throat, pulling him close and the rush of blood seemed to be forcing out his eyeballs.
When I do a thing, its because I want to, Rogan said softly. Always remember that, Pope. Nobody crowds Sean Rogan.
Pope went staggering back against the whitewashed wall and slumped to the ground. He crouched there, sobbing for breath, aware of the Ford starting up and moving out across the yard, the engine fading into the distance.
A footstep scraped on stone and a voice said calmly, Friend Rogan plays rough. A dangerous man to cross.
Pope looked up at Henry Soames and cursed savagely. I hope you know what youre doing. He groaned, swaying a little as he got to his feet. If Id any sense Id pull out of this now.
And lose out on all that lovely money? Soames patted him on the shoulder. Lets go back inside and Ill go over it again. I think youll see things my way.
Round the bend of the road, Rogan parked the car by a five-barred gate and walked back the way he had come. There were several reasons for such a course. In the first place he didnt like Pope, in the second, he didnt trust him. And there was the intriguing fact that the tyres of both cars had been wet although the brake had supposedly been under cover since the previous day.
Nearing the cottage, he left the road, pushed his way through a plantation of damp fir trees and crossed the yard at the rear. A curtain was drawn across the window, but when he bent down he could see most of the living room through a narrow crack.
Henry Soames and Pope were sitting at the table engaged in earnest conversation, the whisky bottle between them. Rogan stayed there for only a moment, then turned and retraced his steps.
So the plot thickened. Most puzzling thing of all, how did Colum OMore come to be mixed up with such people? There was no answer, could be none till he reached Kendal. He leaned back in his seat and concentrated on the road ahead.
5
After midnight Rogan had the road pretty much to himself, although from Bristol to Birmingham and north into Lancashire he came across plenty of heavy transport working the all-night routes.
Just after two a.m. he stopped at a small garage near Stoke to fill up, staying in the shadows of the car so that the attendant didnt get a clear look at his face.
He made good time, always keeping within any indicated speed limits, and dawn found him moving north along the M6 motorway east of Lancaster.
The morning was grey and sombre with heavy rain clouds drifting across his path, and to the west the dark waters of Morecambe Bay were being whipped into whitecaps. He opened the side window and the wind carried the taste of good salt air and he inhaled deeply, feeling suddenly alive for the first time in years.
He stopped the car, took out the vacuum flask and stood at the side of the road looking out at the distant sea while he finished the coffee. It was difficult to believe, but he was out. For a brief moment, the strange, illogical thought crossed his mind that perhaps this was only some dark, hopeless dream from which the rattle of the key in the lock of his cell door would awaken him at any moment, and then a gull cried harshly in the sky and rain started to fall in a sudden heavy rush. He stood there for a moment longer, his face turned up to it, and then got back into the car and drove away.
He arrived in Kendal just after seven and found the place, like most country market towns at that time in the morning, already stirring. He located the Woolpack Inn in Stricklandgate without any trouble, pulled in the car park and switched off the engine.
It was a strange feeling waiting there in the car, like the old days working with the Maquis in France, and he remembered that morning in Amiens with the rain bouncing from the cobbles and the contact man who turned out to be an Abwehr agent. But then you never could be certain of anything in this life, from the womb to the grave.