The Man in the Street by Martin Howe

Author:Martin Howe
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
Published: 2019-05-15T16:00:00+00:00

Averting his eyes, Tony stared at the tired yellow wall opposite – slowly traced the jagged crack in the bricks that snaked from the ceiling to slither from view behind the shoulder of a guard – closed his ears to the barked orders, and silently humming, attempted to disappear. He quickly discovered there was nowhere to hide. A gasp, an intake of breath, a whimper forced his return, weaving him ever more tightly into the fabric of humiliation that blanketed the prison. He would discover over the coming months of his detention that this stuff was the only covering in the institution able to keep him warm. But for now the ritual of abasement seemed unremitting to Tony.

“The bastards.”

A novice in the art of self-negation he had no idea how much of this treatment he could withstand – it was an agonizing assault. A siren, loud and close, wailed in sympathy. There was frenetic movement around him, close to panic. The prisoners buckled as the pandemonium engulfed them, fear being mutual, the tumult only calmed when the lights suddenly failed, plunging the room into darkness.

“Switch them on for Christ’s sake, we can’t see a bloody thing.”

The bulbs flickered back to life.

“Get the detainees to the cells,” yelled the Deputy Governor, as he dashed out of the room, followed by the doctor. The door slammed as another swung open behind Tony. Bent double and breathing heavily a red-faced guard struggled to speak. All activity ceased as attention focused on his efforts. He straightened up and babbled, “It’s an air raid, they’re overhead. Get to the shelters.”

Handcuffed, the prisoners were frog-marched down a long barely illuminated corridor, which grew appreciably brighter and less stuffy after they turned a corner and approached an open door that led into a walled yard. The party halted and the guards peered out, looking upwards. The sky was a paler grey than the black undifferentiated shadow of the prison building, a pink essence frosted the top of the boundary wall. It was an unheralded visual confection, stunning to the eye. The fresh air too was an elixir, warm and faintly cinder-scented and Tony greedily inhaled as they were hustled across the exercise yard. The pathway worn in the sparse patch of turf by generations of inmates was sodden and gritty, the protruding stones painful for their bare feet. The keening of the siren ceased and as the echoes died away there was calm. Then everyone tensed as they heard the monotonous drone of aircraft. Standing in the open, vulnerable and exposed, the bombers sounded to be upon them.

“Bugger this,” hissed one of the guards, “Run.”

The group broke up in disarray – the prisoners standing rigidly still, uncertain what to do – as their escorts sprinted towards a dark shadow in the wall over on the right. A bright orange light flashed in the slate-streaked space above the wall, followed by another and another. They heard the dull crump of a single explosion and felt the tremor beneath

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