Hell Is Too Crowded - Jack Higgins [14]
It took him little more than a minute to reach the ridge of D Block. There was a car standing outside the gate office in the yard below. A duty officer came out and leaned down to the window. A moment later he signalled and the gates started to open and the car drove out. Probably the governor going to one of his Sunday night bridge parties. Brady grinned involuntarily. The bastard would have something to occupy himself with tomorrow.
He moved easily along the ridge of the roof, a foot on either side, hands braced on the tiles. The laundry chimney was still warm and he moved to one side of it and peered down.
He couldn't see a damned thing. He remembered Evans's words about getting this far and still having a better than even chance of breaking his neck, and shivered slightly. He pushed the thought away from him and squatting against the wall, quickly uncoiled the length of manilla.
In a way, this was the trickiest part of the whole operation. He couldn't tie the rope to the chimney because he needed it to descend the outer wall. He passed one end round and for a moment, stood there, bracing himself, the double strands firmly gripped in both hands, and then he went over the edge.
His feet slipped against the wet brickwork and he swung against the wall, skinning his knuckles, and his legs bumped painfully against the pipe.
He sat on it, legs astride, back against the wall, and pulled on one end of the rope and it snaked down through the night. He coiled it quickly, slipped it around his neck, and started to inch his way across the pipe.
For those remaining minutes, time seemed to come to a stop and all sounds were muted as he moved through the almost total darkness. It seemed like a dream to him when he reached out with one hand, touched rough stone, and looked up to see the edge of the wall, a dark line against the night sky.
He quickly uncoiled the rope, fastened one end around the pipe and tossed the other over the wall. His fingers hooked into a tiny crack in the stonework and he stood up.
The edge of the wall was comfortably within his reach. He pulled himself up, carefully negotiated the rusty iron spikes and slithered down the other side. He dangled at the end of the rope for a moment before dropping six feet into wet grass at the top of the railway cutting.
He was soaked to the skin and as a train approached, he lay down and turned his face into the wet grass, heart pounding painfully. When it had passed into the distance, the sound of it still trembling on the damp air, he got to his feet and slithered down the bank without even a backward glance at the wall behind him.
As he crossed the track and scrambled up the bank on the other side, a clock struck the half-hour. Twenty minutes from leaving his cell--that's all it had taken. Unless anything went wrong, that gave him twelve hours before first rounds in the morning.
He went over the low wall into the churchyard and moved cautiously between the gravestones. Light showed in the tall windows and an organ played the opening bars of a hymn. A moment later the congregation joined in, their voices rising into the night.
He decided that evening service must be just starting. He kept to the wall all the way round to the gate and slipped out.
It was a poor neighbourhood, the streets lined with dilapidated terrace houses and the shop stood on the corner only twenty or thirty yards away. A van swished by, tyres hissing on the wet asphalt, and then there was silence.
As he crossed the street, he had the key ready in his hands. His stomach was suddenly hollow and for the first time, he was afraid. Perhaps Evans had been wrong. Perhaps the key wouldn't fit the lock?
He moved into the dark entrance of the shop, hesitated for the merest fraction of a second, and then bent down. His groping fingers found the lock, the key turned smoothly. A moment later, he was standing inside, his back to the door, shaking with