Overtime. Part 18

'What you need,' Giovanni said, 'is your own personal pension scheme. Now it so happens...

It had taken a long time.

Well, it would, wouldn't it, if all you had to dig with was the handle of a broken spoon, and the wall was thirteen feet thick and made of a particularly hard sort of toughened silicon.

And then there was the problem of disposing of the dust and the rubble; you can't just leave it there, or the guards will notice and get suspicious. You have to stash it somewhere out of sight. The prisoner had eventually hit on the idea of stuffing it into bags and hanging them from the roof, where it was so dark that n.o.body could see them. But the only materials he had for making bags from was spiders' webs - it takes literally hundreds of miles of spiders' web to weave three inches of reasonably strong thread - and the skins of rats. He had, over many years, found out that his cell produced only enough food for one spider and one rat to live on at any one time. But one thing that the prisoner had plenty of was time; and while he was waiting for the spiders to spin another few inches of gossamer and for the rats to die of old age, he could always get on with the digging.

And now he was almost through. Another half inch, no more, stood between him and whatever it was that lay on the other side of the wall. If he really got stuck in and put his back into it, he'd be through in five years, or six at the very latest. He was virtually free already

He was just about to set to work when he heard footsteps in the corridor outside. Hurriedly the prisoner dropped the spoon-handle back into the hole he'd gouged in the floor for a hiding-place, and sat on it. The door opened.

'Afternoon,' said the jailer.

'Afternoon,' replied the prisoner affably. He was always careful to be as pleasant as he could with the staff. After all, it couldn't be a wonderfully exciting and fulfilling job working in a place like this, and the prisoner was the sort of man who thought about such things.

'I've got some good news for you,' said the jailer. 'The bloke in the cell next to you's just died.'

The prisoner went as white as a sheet. Since he hadn't seen daylight for a very, very long time now, this wasn't immediately apparent to the jailer.

'Which side?' the prisoner asked.

'Sorry?'

'On which side was his cell?'

'That one,' the jailer replied, and pointed. The prisoner 's heart started to beat again. Not the side he was digging on, thank goodness!

'Got to be that side,' the jailer continued, "cos there isn't a cell the other side. The other side's the exterior wall of the castle. Anyway,' he went on, 'your neighbour's just snuffed it.'

'Ah,' said the prisoner. This was supposed to be good news, and the prisoner could see nothing pleasant in the news that a man had just died, even if it was a man he'd never even heard of before.

'And the good news,' the jailer went on, 'is that that means his cell's now empty. We can move you in there straight away.

'But...'

'You'll like it,' the jailer said. 'It's got a lovely south-facing aspect,' he went on. 'Bigger than this one, too; you d have - oh, six inches at least more living area. Open plan. The door doesn't squeak, either, and it's ever so quiet and peaceful. It's even got a window.'

'I -'.

'Well,' said the jailer, 'maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration. What I mean is, the door isn't exactly flush, and so when there's a lamp lit out in the corridor, that means that a little crack of light gets in under the door. Now isn't that something?'

'Yes, but I -'

'Kept it lovely, he did,' the jailer went on blithely. 'The bloke who's just died, I mean. He did this nice sort of mural thing all over the walls with chalk. Sort of pattern of bunches of six lines down and one line through them. Simple, if you know what I mean, but sort of striking.'

'Yes, but I can't -'

The jailer smiled. 'That's all right,' he said. 'I know what you're going to say, but really, no problem. You've never been any trouble, you haven't, not like some of them, and you've always had a cheerful word for me and the kids of a morning. We appreciate that sort of thing in the prison service, believe you me. So this is my way of saying thank you. I mean, if we can't help people out sometimes, what sort of a world is this, anyway?'

'But ...' The prisoner couldn't help turning and looking into the darkness at where his tunnel, which had occupied his waking and sleeping thoughts for so long now that he couldn't remember a time when

On the other hand, a voice said at the back of his mind, this gentleman is being extremely kind and generous, doing his best to be helpful, and even when people do things for you and give you things that you don't actually want, you must always remember that it's the thought that counts. Anything else would be sheer ingrat.i.tude.

'Thank you,' said the prisoner. 'Thank you ever so much.' He looked round for the last time. 'I'll just say goodbye to my rat and I'll be right with you.'

The concert had been a success.

Nominally, it was a charity gig, with all the proceeds going to finance a last-ditch attempt to turn back the tide of Islam and recapture Jerusalem; hence the name of the organization - CrusAid - and the stalls at the entrances to the auditorium selling a wide range of official souvenir missals, holy relics and I-Forcibly-Converted-The-World surcoats. In reality, CrusAid was a wholly-owned subsidiary of Clairvaux Holdings, the property arm of the United Lombard Group of Companies, which in turn was a satellite corporation of the Second Crusade Investment Trust (established 1187) into which the Beaumont Street Syndicate funnelled the acc.u.mulated capital of the centuries. By the time the proceeds reached SCIT, however, the money had been not so much laundered as washed in the blood of the Lamb.

In spite of all that, however, they came in their thousands from all over Christendom, and when Blondel sang O Fortuna Velut Luna, Imperator Rex Graecorum, Aestuans Intrinsecus and other numbers from his 1186 hit missal Carmina Burana, they had to be forcibly restrained by the Templar security guards from ripping up the seats and setting fire to them.

Afterwards, Giovanni came backstage. He looked exhausted and his hands were black with silver oxide from helping his brothers count the takings. They had had to hire fifteen mules and three hundred Knights Templar to transport the money to Paris to be banked.

'Blondel,' he said wearily, 'that was great. I mean really great. Stupendous.' He sat down heavily on a chest and ma.s.saged his wrists.

'Good,' said Blondel absently, towelling his damp hair. 'Can we be getting on now, please?'

'I'm sorry?' Giovanni said.

'Well,' Blondel replied, 'there's no point in hanging about here, is there? I thought you said you wanted me to do several concerts.

'Yes,' said Giovanni, 'but not now, surely. I mean...'

'No time like the present,' Blondel said, 'if you'll pardon the expression. When to?'

'Now hang on a minute ...

Blondel shook his head. 'We had a deal,' he said. 'I was to do a certain number of concerts, and then you'd tell me what you know about the Chastel des Larmes Chaudes. You didn't say anything about intervals between the concerts. I just want to get all this fooling about over and done with and then get back to work.'

Giovanni shuddered. 'Fair enough,' he said, 'but -'

'But nothing,' Blondel replied firmly. 'Where's the next venue?'

Just then the door of the dressing room burst open, and in tumbled three large men in armour, all with that air of complete discomfort that comes from charging a door with their shoulders without first ascertaining whether or not it's actually locked. They grabbed at a table to try and stop themselves, succeeded only in turning it over, skidded across the flagstones, collided with the wall and fell over, stunned. On their surcoats they bore a coat of arms comprising a mitre argent on a sable field, a bend cross keys reversed gules, attired of the second. Blondel blinked, stood motionless for a second as if rapt in thought, and then grabbed a fire extinguisher and hosed them down until they were all thoroughly drenched in white foam.

'Now try it,' he said. 'Go on.'

The three men made various gestures. Their reactions suggested that what they'd expected would happen hadn't.

'Thought so,' Blondel said. 'I thought you wouldn't be able to blow up if you were all wet. Now, I think it s time we had a chat, don't you?'

'We're saying nothing.'

'All right, then,' Blondel replied grimly. 'Guy, shoot their hats off.'

'But they aren't wearing...'