Blood Storm (9 page)

They had returned along the track to the road, went back
to where the signpost pointed to the ferry.

'I thought I always did when you said something. I was with you down at the training mansion in Surrey. I seem to
recall I scored more bulls than you on the firing range.'

'You did,' Newman agreed. 'I said that because my
impression is the thugs in State Security gear are also well
trained. And they're armed . . .'

Walking along the other path Newman stopped frequently
to listen, then resumed his long strides. She had to hurry to keep up with his pace. The forest ended, they were in
the open, the smell of the
sea even stronger. The ferry was like a large barge with a small ladder at its stern, a short
distance from a large engine. One weather-beaten rustic
wearing oilskins stood on the shore, smoking a curved
pipe.

'Going across?' he called out in a West Country accent.

'It's calm today so don't bother with oilskins. I'm Abe,' he
introduced himself as Newman handed him the fare for two people.

'Had any other passengers?' Newman enquired with a
smile.

'Only six of those bastards .. . excuse me, miss
...
in their
black fancy-dress uniform. Came over early this morning,
asked if the old tub, as they called my ferry, crossed at night.
I told them the last crossing is at 8.30 p.m. I bring her back
through the channel marked with lights. You mention us to
anyone and you're in hospital one of'em said. So I won't be
sayin' another word to people like that. . .'

They climbed the small ladder and Paula saw there were
long continuous seats on either side of the barge. Newman
led her to the front and as they settled themselves Abe started the engine. The barge slid out along a channel
between long reeds, then they were in open sea.

'Black Island is shaped like a triangle,' Newman
explained, 'with the apex pointing south into the Channel.
We land at a small village called Lydford. Has a pub and not
much else.'

'No holidaymakers?'

'A lot at the eastern end, which has small hotels and
good beaches. There's another ferry - one that takes cars.
At this end there are locals in places like Lydford. That's
it. Nothing on the western side, where the fancy-dress lot
are building like mad. It's sinister. Which is why I want
photos.'

He stopped talking as Abe fixed the tiller, walked down
to them. There was hardly any motion as Lydford's church
spire hove into clear view.

'Don't know what they can be buildin' over on the west side,' Abe began, talking with his pipe in his mouth. 'I've seen cargo ships comin' in, unloadin' steel bars and Gawd
knows 'ow many
breezeblocks.'

'Probably another holiday centre,' Newman suggested.

'Don't look like it. We'll be landin' soon. I comes over
to collect any passengers on the hour. You'll be comin'
back?'

'I hope so,' Paula said under her breath.

There was a bump as the barge gently hit the wooden
dock. Slinging his golf bag over his shoulder, Newman
helped Paula up on to the dock. He grinned as he tapped
the bag with one hand while they walked off the dock into
the tiny village.

'Good job there are golf courses on the eastern cost. So
this won't look odd.'

'No one about to notice,' Paula observed.

The village was very small. On either side of the road
were old one-storey thatched cottages. The postage-stamp-
size garden in front of each was neatly tended. The church
was also small and constructed years before of black stone.

'Not very welcoming,' Paula commented as they walked
down the street. 'Black stone. Why?'

'Because this island has the only granite quarries I know
of in the south. Black granite, hence its name.'

'There are some nice expensive-looking houses over
there,' Paula commented. 'You can just see them in gaps
between the fir trees. Some oaks too.'

'We turn down this lane,' Newman said, not interested in
her observations as he kept turning his head to scan for any
sign of life. 'This is where it could get hairy . . .'

They walked some distance west along the curving lane.
Fir trees arched above their heads, as if they were walking
inside a tunnel. Rounding a corner they saw a track leading
away to their left, its broken surface carrying the wheel
marks of wide heavy trucks. A sentry was posted there,
wearing a long black coat, peaked cap, an armlet with the
legend State Security, an automatic weapon slung over his left shoulder.

'Get back the way you came,' he ordered. Beneath the
peaked cap his face was coarse and ugly. He barked as
Newman came up to him, Paula by his side, 'Back to the
friggin' mainland. Restricted area here. You can always lay
her in the grass and do it other side of the channel.'

'Manners . . .' Newman began.

The sentry was starting to slip his weapon off his
shoulder, watching Newman. Paula had her gun in her
hand, holding it by the muzzle. She slammed it down on the
sentry's nose, aiming for the bridge. The sentry opened
both eyes wide, then closed them as he slumped backwards
on to the verge.

Newman crouched over him, checked his pulse. He
grinned at Paula as he looked up at her.

'Nice work.'

'He was watching you, not bothering about a woman.'

'He'll be out for quite a while. Now we have to hide him
and I know just the place. Found it when I came over here this morning.' With ease he lifted the body of the six-foot
thug, called over his shoulder as he began walking quickly
along the track, 'You bring his weapon.'

At a turning Newman walked a few paces off the track.
Paula caught him up, to find him staring
down into an
abandoned quarry. The slope was fairly gradual. Newman
bent down, lowered the unconscious man to the edge, pushed. He slithered down a long way, lay still at the
bottom. Without being asked Paula tossed the weapon
down so it lay a few feet away from the inert body.

'Now it gets dangerous,' Newman commented as they
returned to the track. Paula caught him up.

'What do you call what's just happened?'

'Just an opening shot.'

The enclosing trees ended and they were in open rolling
country. A distance to the south she could see a green down
with the blue horizon of the sea on either side. No sign of
anyone.

'What's that hill?' she asked.

'Hog's Nose Down. Well named, considering the sort of
people who have taken over the western end.'

Newman was carrying his automatic weapon which he'd
hauled out from the golf bag. Noting this, Paula kept hold
of her Browning, close to her bag so that she could slip it
inside if it seemed wiser. They arrived at a long low ridge.
Newman stopped, dropped down behind it, poked his
weapon over its crest. Paula dropped down beside him.

'Why are we doing this?'

'I'm a student of the Duke of Wellington's campaigns in
Iberia. At Vimeiro he placed his troops behind a ridge to
save them from the enemy's initial heavy artillery
bombardment. When their infantry followed they couldn't
see them and were shot down in their hundreds. Time to
keep moving . . .'

They crossed the ridge, went down the other side and
walked over a grassy plain until they reached another ridge.
The sky was a clear blue; a bitter wind blew, almost
freezing, so Paula buttoned her windcheater at the neck.

Newman climbed it, went over the crest, dropped flat on
the far side, poking his automatic rifle over the top. Paula
did not follow his example. Her tone had an edge to it when
she spoke.

'Can we stop playing soldiers and get moving? It's
perishingly cold.'

'Nearly there,' Newman said with a smile as he jumped
up. 'You brought your camera? Good. Lots to photograph if it's quiet. The beginning of the prison state . . .'

Only half-built, it was located in a vast hollow. Newman
used his field glasses. Swivelling them everywhere, he
grunted with satisfaction.

'No one about. All gone to get lunch at the pub. We go
in now. Prepare for a shock. This is a new idea for a prison.
Take plenty of pics.'

There were frameworks for more buildings everywhere, a
series of tall steel posts with breeze block walls behind
them. Newman led Paula into a large completed building.
The entry door was solid steel but no lock had been
attached yet.

Paula shuddered inwardly as they went inside. The floor
was solid concrete. She thanked Heaven she was wearing
her boots. The straight corridor which ran into the distance
was surprisingly narrow. She was expecting cells with bars
separating them from the corridor. No bars. Newman
opened the steel door of a cell. She peered inside.

Hardly room for a big dog. A hole in the floor which
Newman explained would be the only toilet facility. Along
one side of the cell was a steel slab fixed to the wall.
Newman pointed to it as she worked her camera.

'That's the bed. Imagine trying to sleep on it. No sign of
mattresses. Not quite like the British police accom
modation.'

'What are those shower-like objects in the roof?' Paula
asked as she continued photographing.

'If they don't like the prisoner they turn on the water and you're soaked. I checked the system. First cold water, then very hot, scalding probably.'

'It's inhuman.'

'Wait till you see the punishment chamber.'

She counted fifty cells on one side as Newman led her
towards the end. So fifty on the other side. This cramped hell accommodated one hundred prisoners. Near the end
Newman opened a larger steel door. She peered into a
much bigger cell. Newman beckoned to her to come inside.

A steel floor sloped on all four sides towards a central
drain. She gazed at hooks let into the walls about seven feet above the floor. Hanging from one wall were six cat-o'-nine
tail whips, a sharp needle at the tip of each tail. She spoke as she used the camera.

'What are those for?'

'To whip aggressive prisoners into submission. Their
bodies will be slashed and dripping blood. Hence the drain
to take it away. Nice people, the hoped-for State Security
mob.' Newman walked to the far end, bent down, took hold
of a handle attached to a round lid about five feet in
diameter. When he heaved it open Paula looked down into
a deep circular area. High up in the walls were radio
speakers and showerheads.