Ted held the padlock in his palm. The men looked at one another and then at the iron gates. The chain fastening them was new, the thick strong links looped twice around the bars, glittered silver in the sunlight.
Peter cleared his throat. ‘So,’ he said, ‘how will this be done?’
‘Well, we’re not going to break this,’ Ted said, looking hopelessly around.
Patrick weighed up the height of the gate. ‘If I stood on your shoulders I could shimmy up.’
‘The barbed wire?’ Peter pointed.
‘Chuck my jacket over it.’
It took him a few minutes to work out footholds, oblivious to the painful shuffling of his heavy studded boots on the other man’s back. Giving one push against Peter, he wedged his toes in the crosspieces of the gate and, when close enough, threw the jacket over the top. The heavy tweed clung to the spikes of the wire. ‘Got it,’ he gasped. ‘Come on, get a bloody move on.’ He swung himself over to the other side and dangled, one arm outstretched. ‘Come on, these bloody things are sticking in my guts.’
Peter took a few steps back and took a run. He leapt at the gates and grabbed one of the rails. It felt as though his arm was on fire as it took his whole weight. Then he pivoted, making his body rotate until the sheer force crashed him against iron and he hung on. He wouldn’t have been able to do this a year ago and thanked fortune for the muscles he’d built up through his gardening work. Scrabbling upwards he grasped Patrick’s hand and gained enough leverage to join the other man.
For a few seconds they were suspended, the air wheezing and whistling in their chests. Then Peter slid down the other side.
‘Ted?’ Patrick motioned to him. ‘Come on, man.’ He clicked his fingers impatiently.
Ted bit his lip. ‘I don’t think I can.’ Reaching up he could just touch the first cross. Frustrated he looked around.
A man on the allotments was leaning on his spade and staring at them. When he saw Ted a look of recognition flashed across his face and he raised a hand.
‘For fuck’s sake, man, I can’t hang on much longer.’ Patrick tried to tuck more of the thickness of his jacket under him.
‘Well, get down then, but leave the jacket there.’ Ted crossed the road towards the man.
‘It’s Ted Booth, ain’t it?’ The man jabbed his spade into bed of soil. ‘Heard your little un is missing.’
‘Yeah, thought we might look in there.’ Ted gestured with his thumb towards the old mill. Peter and Patrick stood watching behind the gate.
The man looked doubtful. ‘How’d she get in?’
Ted ignored the question. ‘I need help to get over the gate.’ He looked over at the greenhouse. There was an old dustbin by the door. ‘Can I use that?’
‘Hmm – my burning bin? I’d want it back.’
‘I only want to use it to climb over.’ Without waiting for the man’s permission, Ted slid down the bank and climbed over the allotment fence. Emptying ashes and bits of burnt wood out of it he heaved it onto his shoulder. ‘I’ll bring it back.’
At the gates Patrick had once again clambered onto Peter’s back and was waiting to hoist Ted over.
When they were all three inside the camp, Patrick said, ‘Stick together or split up?’
‘Together.’ A tremor ran through Peter.
‘Separate,’ Patrick decided. ‘Where first? Ted?’
‘Top floors of the mill?’
‘You?’ Patrick glanced at Peter.
‘I know the hospital buildings,’ Peter said. He would avoid going into the compound if he could.
‘Right, you do those and we’ll start in the mill.’
Peter watched Ted and Patrick as they ran across the crumbling concrete of the large yard and up the ramp where lorries used to load up those prisoners sent to work on farms. Two large doors hung crookedly on their hinges. He heard the echoing voices of both men as they shouted for Linda, saw their pale silhouettes against the dark of the windows on each landing.
Peter walked towards the narrow entrance where the guardroom used to be. With the toe of his shoe he traced the outline of the foundations. There was an ashen taste in his mouth. This was no good, recollections did him no good.
He whirled around to face the building that had been the hospital. He crossed the path and ran up the steps to the entrance. The doors were stiff but, with a little persuasion, gave way, scraping years of rubble with them. His footsteps were a hollow click on the floor. He took the stairs two at a time, stopping on each floor to shout Linda’s name, until he reached the top.
Walking through the long wards he stared at the disarranged iron bedsteads, some missing springs, some head rails, and the moulding mattresses piled up in corners, now the homes of mice. Or rats, he thought seeing the large lumps of stuffing pulled out and arranged into nests and the size of the droppings everywhere. His mouth made an involuntary repulsed shape as he moved the mattresses with his foot.
He only touched what he had to, the door handles, rotting blankets, cupboards large enough to hold a little girl. At each of those he instinctively held his breath, letting the air out in relief when he found nothing.
And then he was in the ward where he’d worked with Mary. ‘Mein Gott,’ he whispered, ‘Gott in Himmel.’ Flies lay thick on the windowsills, bluebottles buzzed around his head. He flapped at them, cursing. Disturbed dust motes floated around him, shimmering in the gleam of yellow sunshine that forced its way through the grimed windows and lay in slanted rectangles on the floor. He heard water and crossed to the back of the ward to the small wash hand basin. A long green stain from beneath the tap to the plughole gave evidence to the years of wasted water. Peter tried to tighten it but it wouldn’t budge and he left it to drip.
Finally he stood in the entrance again, marking off in his mind where he had been, making sure he’d missed nowhere. Two steps and he was outside, gratefully taking in the clean air. A train passed through the station without stopping, the thick smoke curling as it rose. He looked across at the mill. Ted was disappearing through the door to the officers’ quarters. Patrick was nowhere to be seen.
There was still the boiler house to check. He felt his way along the dark corridors, the walls rough under his fingertips. Always dimly lit, now it was pitch black. When he came to the stone steps there was a slight glimmer of light from the air vents near the ceiling. He shouted, ‘Linda?’ The name bounced off the walls.
A whistling flutter of wings made him stoop quickly as two pigeons brushed past his head and flew along the corridor. For a moment he thought his heart was going to burst out of his chest. Steadying himself he made his way down the steps until he was standing outside the heavy door. Running his hands over the surface he found a bolt. It was rough with rust but moved quite easily when he tugged it. The door still didn’t open. As he dropped his hand away his knuckles hit a large key. It took both hands to grasp and turn in the lock. A scraping of metal on metal.
Standing in the doorway, he let his eyes get used to the gloom. Here, in this dismal place, he and Mary had first made love, desperate in their need for each other. They’d taken such chances to be together in those days, jeopardised so much, especially Mary. He remembered casting aside the terror of discovery, overwhelmed by his love for a woman he thought could never be truly his. He knew how lucky he was to have found her again.
He shivered. At least then this room had been warm. The furnace, which covered most of the far wall, was always lit. Now it was cold, rusty and disintegrated. The wall was damp when he placed his hand against it. Grit crunched under his shoes, but became tacky as he took a couple of strides and stopped.
He bent down and felt the ground. It was sticky. He lifted his fingers to his nose. Blood. Still fresh. His skin tingled with fear. ‘Oh mein Gott, kein.’ He squatted down, peered into the darkness and then shuffled forward holding one hand in front of him and one on the ground, brushing aside the years of dirt and grime until his fingers touched something. Stunned, he held the air in his lungs as he moved trembling fingers over a small foot. ‘Linda,’ he breathed.
There she was; a small bundle of clothes, seemingly thrown into a crumpled heap. His heart stopped, silence all around him. ‘Linda?’ His hands hovered. And then his years of training came back with a rush. He held the pad of his thumb to the cold frail wrist and waited. It was there, the pulse. Relief flooded through him. He didn’t try to stop the sob that burst out.
At his touch she stirred, moaned, began to cry.
‘It is all right, meine Kleine.’ He spoke softly. ‘Du bist jetzt in Sicherheit. You are safe now.’ Hooking his arms under her he rose, almost stumbling in his haste, out through the door, running along the corridors, his footsteps echoing in the emptiness.
Outside the air was clean and fresh, the sky a brilliant blue as they emerged into the sunlight. Peter shrugged off the years of fear. ‘She is here,’ he shouted, ‘she is here!’
They didn’t see George Shuttleworth watching them from the behind the wall of the bridge over the canal path. They didn’t see him turn and stumble down the steps. As they passed by they didn’t see him hiding under the bridge.
And, late that night, no one saw him catch the last bus into Manchester.