Dark Side of the Street - Jack Higgins [23]
"I wasn't sure she'd want to know me any more," Chavasse said. "I must take a lot of living up to."
"I hear she looked pretty good."
Chavasse had long since got over being surprised at Youngblood's apparently inexhaustible supply of information. "Is there anything you don't hear?"
"If there is, it isn't worth knowing."
Atkinson arrived on one of his periodical tours of inspection and a few minutes later, the bell rang for the end of the session. They queued to return their plates and then stood in line at the lift to be returned in batches to their cells for the rest period before the afternoon session in the workshops began.
Smoking was allowed as they waited and Youngblood produced a cigarette, put it in his mouth and searched unsuccessfully for a match. Atkinson stopped beside him, took a box from his pocket and held it out.
"You can keep those, Youngblood, but make 'em last." He shook his head as he moved away. "I don't know what some of you blokes would do without me."
There was a certain amount of dutiful laughter, particularly from those who wanted to stay in his good books. A moment later, the lift arrived and as they moved forward, Youngblood put his cigarette away and slipped the matches into his pocket.
Chavasse was conscious of a sudden surge of excitement. The whole incident was completely out of character. There was no love lost between Atkinson and Youngblood, both men made that quite plain, and yet the Principal Officer had gone out of his way to do Youngblood a kindness. It just didn't make sense.
During the rest period the cell doors were left open and there was a certain amount of coming and going, but any prisoner was at liberty to lock himself in if he didn't feel sociable.
"You don't mind if I close the door, do you?" Youngblood said to Chavasse when they reached their cell. "I'm not in the mood for fraternising today."
"Suits me." Chavasse stretched out on his bed. "What's wrong--aren't you feeling so good?"
"Restless," Youngblood said. "Let's say I feel like cracking the walls wide open and leave it at that."
Chavasse opened a magazine and waited and after a while Youngblood got to his feet and moved to the washbasin. He lit a cigarette, keeping his back turned and then placed the box of matches on the side of the basin.
Chavasse took a cigarette from one of his shirt pockets, got to his feet and moved forward quickly, reaching for the matches. Youngblood was staring down at his open palm. He closed it quickly, but not before Chavasse had seen the small brown capsule.
"Mind if I have a match, Harry?"
"Help yourself," Youngblood said.
Chavasse lit the cigarette and returned to his bed. So Atkinson was the contact man? They must have paid him a small fortune, but then, there was a lot at stake. He lay down and behind him, Youngblood filled a plastic cup with water and drank it slowly.
There was a strange fixed expression on his face as he sat on the edge of his bed and Chavasse said,
"You sure you're okay, Harry? You don't look too good to me. Maybe you should go sick."
"I'm fine," Youngblood said. "Just fine. Probably the spring and all that jazz. I always get restless at this time of year. It's the gypsy in me."
"Who wouldn't in a dump like this," Chavasse said, but Youngblood didn't seem to hear him and sat there staring at the wall, a strange far-away look in his eyes.
It was hotter than usual in the machine shop that afternoon, mainly because the air circulating system had broken down, and most of the men had stripped to the waist.
Chavasse worked at one end of the bench cutting plates with a hand guillotine and Youngblood was grinding steel clips to size on a high speed wheel. He had been sweating profusely for some time now and there was a strange dazed expression in his eyes.
"You all right, Harry?" Chavasse called, but Youngblood didn't seem to hear him.
He paused for a moment, leaning heavily on the bench, rubbing sweat away from his eyes and when he reached out to pick up another clip from the stack on the bench beside him