The Violent Enemy. Jack Higgins

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      During most of September it had been warm and clear, but on the last day the weather broke. Clouds hung threateningly over the moor, rain dripped from the gutters and when Rogan went to the window, brown leaves drifted across the courtyard from the trees in the Governor’s garden.

      Behind him Martin shuffled the cards on a small stool. ‘Another hand, Irish?’

      ‘Not worth it,’ Rogan said. ‘They’ll be feeding us soon.’ He stood at the window, a slight frown on his face, his eyes following the roof line of the next block to the hospital beyond, and Martin joined him.

      ‘Can it be done, Irish?’

      Rogan nodded. ‘It can be done all right. It took me just over two hours last time.’ He turned and looked down at Martin. ‘You’ll never make it, Jigger. You’d break your bloody neck halfway.’

      Martin grinned. ‘What would I be wanting to crash out for? Nine months and I can spit in their eyes once and for all. My old woman’s got a nice little boarding house going in Eastbourne. They won’t see me back here again.’

      ‘I seem to have heard that one before,’ Rogan said. ‘Can you still work that trick of yours on the door?’

      ‘Always happy to oblige.’

      Martin took an ordinary spoon from his bedside locker and went to the door. He listened for a moment, then dropped to one knee.

      The lock was covered by a steel plate perhaps six inches square, and he quickly forced the handle of the spoon between the edge of the plate and the jamb. He worked it around for several minutes and there was a slight click. He pulled and the door opened slightly.

      ‘Now that’s one thing that always impresses me,’ Rogan said.

      ‘There’s thirty years’ hard graft there, Irish. The best screwsman in the business.’ Martin sighed. ‘The trouble is I got so good they could always tell when it was me.’

      He pushed the door gently into place and worked the spoon round again. There was another slight click and he stood up.

      ‘There have been times in my life when I could have used you,’ Rogan said.

      ‘You don’t want to start consorting with criminals at your age, Irish.’ Martin grinned. ‘An old lag’s trick. Plenty of cons in this place could do as much. These old mortice deadlocks are a snip. One of these days they’ll get wise and change them.’

      He went back to his bed, produced a packet of cigarettes and tossed one across to Rogan. ‘There’s at least six other gates to pass through between here and the yard and most of them are guarded, remember. It’ll take more than a spoon to get you out of this place.’

      ‘Anything can be done if you put your mind to it,’ Rogan said. ‘Come to the window and I’ll show you.’

      Martin held up a hand quickly and shook his head. ‘Nothing doing. What I don’t know can’t hurt you.’

      Rogan frowned. ‘You’re no grass, Jigger.’

      The old man shrugged. ‘We can all be pushed just so far in a place like this.’

      There was a rattle at the door and, turning quickly, Rogan was aware of an eye at the spyhole. The key turned in the lock and the Principal Officer came in.

      ‘Outside, Rogan. Someone wants to see you.’

      Rogan frowned. ‘Who is it?’

      ‘A bloke called Soames. Lawyer from London. Something to do with an appeal. Seems you’ve got friends working for you.’

      As he waited in the queue outside the visiting room, Rogan wondered about Soames, trying to decide what could be behind his visit. As far as he was aware, there was no chance of an appeal against the Home Secretary’s decision for at least another year, and to his certain knowledge there was no one working for him on the outside. Since the Organization had gone into voluntary liquidation the previous year, he’d become a dead letter to most people.

      When his turn came, the Duty Officer took him in and sat him in a cubicle. Rogan waited impatiently, the conversation on either side a meaningless blur, and then the door opened and Soames came in.

      He was small and dark with a neatly trimmed moustache and soft pink hands. He carried a bowler hat and briefcase and wore a neat pin-striped suit.

      He sat down and smiled through the wire mesh. ‘You won’t know me, Mr Rogan. My name’s Soames – Henry Soames.’

      ‘So I’ve been told,’ Rogan said. ‘Who sent you?’

      Soames glanced each way to make sure that no individual conversation could be overheard in the general hubbub, then leaned close.

      ‘Colum O’More.’

      A vivid picture jumped into Rogan’s mind at once, one of those queer tricks that memory plays. He had just volunteered to ‘go active’ as they’d called it in the Organization in those days, a callow, seventeen-year-old student. They’d taken him to a house outside Dublin for the final important interview and had left him alone in a small room to wait. And then the door had opened and a giant of a man had entered, the mouth split in a wide grin as he laughed back over his shoulder at someone outside, wearing his strength and courage for all to see like a suit of armour. Colum O’More – the Big Man.

      ‘Are you sure, avic?’ he’d said to Rogan. ‘You know what you’re getting into?’

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