Maddon's Rock (20 page)

“Quick,” I whispered in Bert’s ear. And we began scrambling for the bank. We reached it and pulled ourselves out on to the short turf. Our clothes were heavy with water. It was wretchedly cold. For the first time I realised that there was a breeze—it cut like a knife through our soggy clothes. I looked back as we lay gasping for breath. As I did so, the car swung on a bend. “Keep still,” I whispered to Bert. The headlights were full on us. Our shadows lay on the grass—two black and shapeless humps. The shadows moved and lengthened. The car’s headlights swung away. The bridge stood out again clear as in an etching. The man in the peaked cap was waving a torch. The car halted on the bridge. We could hear voices, a vague sound just topping the smooth hustle of the river. All about us was a diffused light. A pony’s droppings looked like a huge dunghill so close was my face buried to the ground. Here and there were low bushes of gorse and bramble. And fifty yards up the slope of the hill the fringe of the woods mocked us.

The car moved on. Its headlights were swallowed up
in the woods. The red tail-light disappeared. All was black again. A torch flashed by the bridge. Footsteps sounded sharp and frosty on the macadam of the roadway. We got up then and made for the woods. A voice suddenly called out. Headlights instantly flashed on, bathing all the open space in which we ran with a bright artificial light. We flung ourselves to the ground, scarcely daring to breathe.

Surely they must have seen us. Why the shout? Had they been waiting for us? We lay motionless, two frightened, wretched heaps of sodden clothing in a prickle of gorse that went unnoticed in our sudden scare. A car engine purred. The headlights swung away from us and the police car disappeared up the road through the woods.

Darkness again and silence.

Cautiously we got to our feet. My face and hands were scratched with gorse and bramble. But we were out of trouble for the moment. We hurried then into the shelter of the woods.

Ten minutes later we were standing in a clearing high up on the wooded hillside. We were panting and our clothes clung to us like wood pulp. The heat of our exertions rose in a thick steam. But I don’t think in that moment we gave a thought to our dilapidated condition. We were looking downhill, across the clearing, to where the tree tops on the further side stood etched against an orange glow that flared up into the night. It shone on the low bellies of the drizzle-laden clouds so that they glared redly like a backcloth in Berlioz’s
Damnation of Faust.

“It’s a fire, that’s wot it is,” Bert said. He suddenly gave a cackling laugh. “Strewf!” he chuckled. “That’s two fires in one day, ca’nting the one the Borstal fellers started in the prison. I ain’t ’ad such a riotous evenin’ since I was a nipper an’ saw a pub in Islington, a shop in the Gray’s Inn Road an’ a tram-car at King’s Cross, all free of ’em on fire the same night. Gosh! I wouldn’t mind warmin’ meself at that blaze. Wot d’yer reckon it is, a rick?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s quite a blaze by the
look of it.” And then a sudden idea swept through my mind. “Bert,” I said, “I believe it’s an hotel on fire. I remember there’s one in these woods somewhere. Listen! If it is an hotel, there’ll be a fire engine there. Now suppose we go down and mingle with the fire-fighters. That would account for our being soaked through. A few black smudges on our necks would cover up our prison haircut. We’d get warm and with a bit of luck we might get a lift. Anyway, the police Would never think of looking for us amongst a crowd of people helping to put out a fire. Come on,” I said, suddenly excited by the idea.

He clapped his hand on my shoulder. “Blimey?” he said. “You oughter’ve bin in the Resistance Movement, you ought.” And I suddenly felt light-hearted, almost confident.

The woods ran right down to the blaze. It was the hotel all right. We came out of the trees amongst some outbuildings. The fire had not extended to these. But the main building appeared to be a sheet of flame. The red paintwork and gleaming brass of a fire engine shone in the light of the flames. Twenty yards from the blaze we felt the heat of it. Two silver jets of water hissed into the crackling mass of flame. Steam hung over the wrecked building like a cloud. Some men were removing furniture from a side of the building that had not yet been engulfed. We joined them. We got as close to the flames as we dared. I have never been so glad about somebody else’s misfortune. The heat of the fire had our clothes steaming as though they were in a quick-service cleaners. Our grateful bodies absorbed the warmth. I could feel my clothes drying on me, stiffening and getting hot. Now and then sparks fell and the pungent smell of singed cloth filled the air.

I suppose the fire lasted about an hour from the time we arrived. Gradually the weight of water subdued the flames. And then, quite suddenly it seemed, the glow and heat was gone and all that remained was the brick shell of the building crammed with a twisted heap of broken and blackened timber.

All this time we had kept out of the way. Parked close beside the fire engine was a squad car. Two policemen in blue peaked caps, one a sergeant, stood by the fire chief. I wondered whether this was the police car that had given us such a scare at the bridge below Postgate. Probably the driver of the car they had stopped had told them he could see the glow of a fire from the top of the opposite hill. It would certainly have been visible from there.

The fire was out now. The firemen were packing up. The only light was the spotlights of the fire engine. “Bert,” I whispered, “what about getting a lift on the fire engine?”

“Nark it, guvner,” he said quickly. “They’d want to know why we was ’ere. An’ suppose they asked us for our hidentity cards?”

I hesitated. But I was convinced this was our chance. I was too excited by the idea to be warned off it. “Listen, Bert,” I said in his ear. “That’s a Totnes engine. I asked one of the firemen just now. And Totnes is on the main line to London. Once in Totnes we’d be clear. It’s too far from the moors for them to have a police check on the railway station, not on the night of the escape at any rate. If we could get a lift on that engine we’d be clear. No police check would think of stopping a fire engine to search for escaped prisoners.”

“Okay,” said Bert a little doubtfully. “D’yer really fink they’ll give us a lift?” Then suddenly he gripped my arm. “Wot aba’t waitin’ till that patrol car moves off? The firemen wouldn’t ’ave ’eard aba’t us, but them coppers ’ave. They only came da’n ter look at the fire. It’s us they’re after really.”

“No, we’ll do it now,” I said. “And just to make certain they do give us a lift we’ll ask the police sergeant.”

“Here, nark it,” Bert exclaimed in alarm. “I ain’t talkin’ ter no coppers.”

“You don’t have to,” I answered. “Just keep in the background. I’ll do the talking.” I crossed the gravel drive, Bert following reluctantly at my heels. “Excuse me, officer,” I said. The police sergeant turned. He was a
big bull of a man with sharp eyes sunk deep in a ruddy face and a little clipped moustache. “I wonder if you could help us,” I said quickly. I tried to control the nervousness in my voice. “My friend and I are in a bit of a jam. We were waiting for the bus up on the road when we saw the flames and came down to give a hand. Now we’re in a pretty filthy state and we’ve missed the bus. I was wondering if it would be possible for us to ride back on the fire engine. It is the Totnes engine, isn’t it?”

“That’s right, sir.” His sharp eyes inspected us critically.

“Well, I know it’s against regulations and all that,” I hurried on, “but I thought perhaps in the circumstances—you see, we’re staying in Totnes and I don’t know how we’ll get back otherwise. I thought if you were to have a word with the fire chief——”

He nodded. “I will that, sir. I’d give ’ee a lift meself only we’re going up on to the moors. Two of ’em blasted prisoners ’as broken out. Hang on a minute, sir. I’ll ’ave a word with Mr. Mason ’ere.”

He went over to the officer in charge of the firemen. They were looking at us all the time they were talking. The fire engine suddenly switched on its headlights. I felt sure they would see what we were in that bright glare. Bert coughed nervously and began to back out of the glare. My knees felt weak. I cursed myself for this bit of bravado. I wanted to run. But instead I found myself saying to Bert, “Stand still and pretend to be talking to me as though you didn’t mind being in the glare of the headlights.”

“Okay,” he said. “Wot shall we talk about.” His eyes were wide in the lamplit glare.

“About the weather—anything,” I said. “But for God’s sake don’t look so scared.”

“I can’t ’elp it, mate,” he answered. “I feel like a doll wot’s got a ’ole in the knee joints fru which the sawdust is seepin’ a’t.”

The police sergeant suddenly nodded. Then he came deliberately towards me. I braced myself for the grip of his hand on my shoulder. “That’s all right, sir,” he said
in his friendly Devonian voice. “Just ’op in the back. You’d best look sharp ’cos they’re just leaving.”

“Thank you very much indeed, officer.” It was an effort to get it out. “Goodnight!” I added as we moved towards the fire engine.

“Goodnight,” he replied and began talking again with the constable.

“You got a good nerve,” Bert whispered. The tone of admiration in his voice was like a tonic to my weak legs.

“I nearly did an over-reach,” I whispered back. “If they’d been going the other way we’d have been riding into Totnes in that patrol car.”

A figure emerged from behind the glare of the headlights. “You the two gentlemen that want a lift?” a voice asked.

“That’s right,” I replied.

“Jump up on the back then. We’re just off.”

A fireman gave us a hand up on to the platform beside the escape ladder. The two policemen got into their car and drove off. We could see their headlights dancing through the trees that bordered the drive, climbing up to the road high in the woods above the hotel. Their lights showed like a fast-moving lantern as they turned back towards the bridge below Postgate. The motor of the fire engine suddenly revved, the bell clanged and we moved off into the sweet-smelling night, away from the acrid smoke of smouldering wood.

Our clothes, I discovered, were still damp. It was a bitterly cold drive. But I didn’t really notice it. My heart was singing within me. For with each minute of that biting wind, the humming wheels of the engine were carrying us farther from Dartmoor.

It was shortly after one that the fire engine dropped us outside our hotel in Totnes, or what we said was our hotel. We stood on the pavement until the red tail-light of the engine had disappeared and then cut down a side alley. The alley led into another street. It was dark and deserted. Our footsteps clattered noisily on the pavements. We were as conspicuous at that hour of the
night as we should have been with a spotlight trained on us. We stopped in the shadow of a shop doorway to consider our next move. There was no question of going to a hotel. The story of the fire would explain the state of our clothes and our late arrival, but the porter would almost certainly ask for our identity cards. The hotels would most probably be full anyway. To hang about either in the town or the station would be suicide. “Remember passin’ a pull-in as we came into the town?” Bert asked. “It was a petrol station and there was a couple o’ lorries there. We might get a lift, or a bite to eat. I could just do wiv a bite.”

I remembered the place. It was about a mile out of the town. We did not meet a soul as we walked through the unlighted streets. We kept out of sight when cars passed us. There were three lorries in the pull-in. We had sandwiches and thick coffee essence. We told how we’d helped to put out a fire and ridden in on the fire engine. “Trouble is we missed our train,” Bert said.

“Where yer makin’ fer,” asked the man behind the coffee counter. When I told him London, he said, “Stick ara’nd. One of the regular London boys will be in. I’ll get you a lift.”

At that a little fellow in the corner coughed self-consciously and said in a croaking voice, “I’m goin’ ter London. Give yer a lift if yer like. But it’s fish.”

We didn’t stop to think what it would be like lying on a load of mackerel for 200 miles so anxious were we to get on our way. I’ll never regret that we took that lift. But I wouldn’t want to do it again. It was a hard bed and the smell seemed to impregnate itself into our clothes.

But we got to London. It was just after eight as we dropped off outside Charing Cross station. I bought a morning paper. It was full of the Borstal riot at Dartmoor and two prisoners that had escaped. Our names and descriptions stared back at us from the printed page. Fortunately there was no picture.

We got ourselves cleaned up, bought a few things we needed, had a slap-up feed and caught the first train to
Newcastle. I had the devil of a job to restrain Bert from going up to Islington to see his missis. He knew I was right, but he looked wretched about it.

I had no plan when I got on to that train. I was dazed with the desire for sleep and there’s little I can remember about the journey. And when we got off the train at Newcastle I still had not the faintest idea how I intended to get the information I wanted out of Rankin. It was raining. Night was falling and the wet streets reflected the glare of street and shop lights. I felt crumpled and dirty. My brain was muzzy with sleep. But I was no longer tired. We got a wash at the station and then went to the nearest pub for a drink.

By the time we’d fed it was nearly eight and we went down to the docks to get news of the tug. We had no difficulty in finding her. Everybody seemed to know about Captain Halsey’s expedition to recover the
Trikkala’s
bullion. The tug was moored against one of the Tyneside wharfs. Her squat funnel was dwarfed by a litter of cranes and dingy warehouses. The wharf looked dark and deserted. The water lapped dolefully against the wooden piles. A clutter of crates was piled before one of the warehouses like a child’s wooden building blocks. The air was still and full of the damp smell of water and that strange odour of decaying vegetation and oil that hangs about the waters of a port.

We managed to get quite close to the
Tempest
without fear of being seen. A short gang-plank spanned the gap between the ship and wharf. Above the gang-plank a naked light bulb swung on a wire. A radio blared from somewhere in the foc’stle. “Wot’s the bettin’ Rankin’s a’t ra’nd the boozers?” Bert whispered.