Read Online Public Enemy Number Two by Anthony Horowitz - Free Book Online
Authors: Anthony Horowitz
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else to do. I stretched under the table and kicked him as hard as I could. Too hard. Tim screamed. Both the guards hurried over to us.
“What’s the matter?” one of them asked.
“It’s nothing,” I said. “My brother was just doing an impersonation. He was taking off a 747. You know . . . a 747 taking off.”
“My ankle!” Tim moaned.
“That’s right,” I continued desperately. “His uncle. He’s hurt his uncle by refusing to take him plane spotting at Heathrow tonight.”
By now everyone in the room was looking at us. The two guards shook their heads. “Visiting time over,” one of them said.
I stood up and followed the other inmates through the door and into the prison. Tim sat where he was, rubbing his ankle and gazing after me. I must have given him quite a bruise. I just hoped he’d gotten the message.
When you’re doing time, time passes slowly. But the rest of that afternoon dragged past like a dying man. At last the sun collapsed behind the prison walls and darkness came. Johnny Powers had barely said a word since I’d gotten back from the visiting room. I’d told him that I’d gotten the message across and that Tim would be there.
“Okay, kid. We move at twelve.”
He spoke the words without moving his lips and I remember thinking he’d have made a great ventriloquist. And now that he had Tim on the payroll, he wouldn’t even need to buy a dummy.
We went down to dinner. I couldn’t eat a mouthful. Then it was back into the cells and lockup. Powers dozed off. I lay on my bunk, mentally composing my will. Tim would get my books, my records, and my old stamp collection. I’d leave Snape and Boyle my Australian underpants. We move at twelve. How would Powers even know when twelve had arrived? We didn’t have a watch. And what was he planning anyway? There were at least four locked doors between us and the main gate. If we climbed the walls we would be too high up to drop down on the other side. And then there were the guards in the watchtowers.
A plane grumbled across the sky. Powers’s eyes flickered open.
He didn’t say anything. He rolled over and reached underneath the mattress. A moment later he was standing up, the cold moonlight slashing across his face. His eyes were black. There was no color in his skin. The moonlight glinted off the gun he now held in his right hand. The gun from the shower room. He was only fifteen years old but somehow he was already dead. A discarded frame from one of those old black-and-white gangster films.
He turned to me.
“It’s twelve o’clock, kid,” he said. “Time to go.”
OVER THE WALL
“What do we do, Johnny?”
“Get on ya bunk. Put ya hands on ya stomach. And start groaning,” he said.
I hesitated for about half a second. Just long enough for him to turn around and hiss, “Move it!” Then I clambered up, curled into a ball, and began to groan like I was about to throw up. Which, in fact, I was. I always feel a little queasy when I’m afraid and right then I was scared out of my mind.
Powers glanced back at me, winked, and began to hammer on the door. I could hear the sound echoing down the corridors. There were heavy footsteps on the catwalk, coming our way.
“Guard!” Powers shouted. “Guard!” One of the other prisoners yelled something out. Then there was a rattle of keys and the door swung open. I groaned louder. Powers took a step back.
Walsh was on duty that night. I could just see him out of the corner of my eye, framed in the soft, yellow light of the doorway. “What’s the matter, 00666?” he asked.
“It’s the kid,” Powers said. “He’s sick.”
After the shower-room affair, Walsh didn’t trust either of us. I thought for a moment he was going to walk away. I gave a ghastly croak and shuddered. It wouldn’t have won me any major acting awards, but it seemed to convince Walsh. He walked past Powers, farther into the cell, and stood beside me. Powers made a sign at me as he edged
“What’s the matter?” one of them asked.
“It’s nothing,” I said. “My brother was just doing an impersonation. He was taking off a 747. You know . . . a 747 taking off.”
“My ankle!” Tim moaned.
“That’s right,” I continued desperately. “His uncle. He’s hurt his uncle by refusing to take him plane spotting at Heathrow tonight.”
By now everyone in the room was looking at us. The two guards shook their heads. “Visiting time over,” one of them said.
I stood up and followed the other inmates through the door and into the prison. Tim sat where he was, rubbing his ankle and gazing after me. I must have given him quite a bruise. I just hoped he’d gotten the message.
When you’re doing time, time passes slowly. But the rest of that afternoon dragged past like a dying man. At last the sun collapsed behind the prison walls and darkness came. Johnny Powers had barely said a word since I’d gotten back from the visiting room. I’d told him that I’d gotten the message across and that Tim would be there.
“Okay, kid. We move at twelve.”
He spoke the words without moving his lips and I remember thinking he’d have made a great ventriloquist. And now that he had Tim on the payroll, he wouldn’t even need to buy a dummy.
We went down to dinner. I couldn’t eat a mouthful. Then it was back into the cells and lockup. Powers dozed off. I lay on my bunk, mentally composing my will. Tim would get my books, my records, and my old stamp collection. I’d leave Snape and Boyle my Australian underpants. We move at twelve. How would Powers even know when twelve had arrived? We didn’t have a watch. And what was he planning anyway? There were at least four locked doors between us and the main gate. If we climbed the walls we would be too high up to drop down on the other side. And then there were the guards in the watchtowers.
A plane grumbled across the sky. Powers’s eyes flickered open.
He didn’t say anything. He rolled over and reached underneath the mattress. A moment later he was standing up, the cold moonlight slashing across his face. His eyes were black. There was no color in his skin. The moonlight glinted off the gun he now held in his right hand. The gun from the shower room. He was only fifteen years old but somehow he was already dead. A discarded frame from one of those old black-and-white gangster films.
He turned to me.
“It’s twelve o’clock, kid,” he said. “Time to go.”
OVER THE WALL
“What do we do, Johnny?”
“Get on ya bunk. Put ya hands on ya stomach. And start groaning,” he said.
I hesitated for about half a second. Just long enough for him to turn around and hiss, “Move it!” Then I clambered up, curled into a ball, and began to groan like I was about to throw up. Which, in fact, I was. I always feel a little queasy when I’m afraid and right then I was scared out of my mind.
Powers glanced back at me, winked, and began to hammer on the door. I could hear the sound echoing down the corridors. There were heavy footsteps on the catwalk, coming our way.
“Guard!” Powers shouted. “Guard!” One of the other prisoners yelled something out. Then there was a rattle of keys and the door swung open. I groaned louder. Powers took a step back.
Walsh was on duty that night. I could just see him out of the corner of my eye, framed in the soft, yellow light of the doorway. “What’s the matter, 00666?” he asked.
“It’s the kid,” Powers said. “He’s sick.”
After the shower-room affair, Walsh didn’t trust either of us. I thought for a moment he was going to walk away. I gave a ghastly croak and shuddered. It wouldn’t have won me any major acting awards, but it seemed to convince Walsh. He walked past Powers, farther into the cell, and stood beside me. Powers made a sign at me as he edged
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