The bars on our window are as thick as a child’s wrist.
Beyond them, the jumble of roofs fades into darkness. A narrow street, more of a back alley really, lies empty below us. The air stinks, because the air in Farlight always stinks.
The house opposite is lower than this one. A light shows from one window. A lamp, presumably. We can’t see into the room because its shutters are closed for the night. That’s to be expected, since the cathedral clock just struck eleven.
A quick scrape with my nail reveals rust under the paint of the bars. Another scrape reveals dull steel beneath.
‘Sven.’ Anton’s voice is hoarse. ‘What are you doing?’
Plainly he’s talking to me again.
Apart from being hacked off I didn’t collect the Aux on my way down . . .? I’m thinking. I know it’s a novelty. I’m sure the SIG would have something to say about that. But I’m trying to get us out of here. I don’t say that to Anton, obviously. But why not think? Nothing else is working.
‘Grab one of these,’ I order.
Anton wraps his hands round the central bar and tugs. Gripping the bar next to it, I pull in the opposite direction. We were right first time, the bars are beyond bending.
‘And again.’
Grit drops onto my fingers.
‘Help me off with my shirt,’ I tell Sergeant Leona.
The blade in its neoprene sheath between my shoulders is narrow. This is a knife for stabbing or throwing, rather than slashing. That’s good, because I need the point to be fine.
Positioning the blade parallel to a bar, I jab at the ring of mortar around its upper end and smile when more grit drops onto my fingers. Too much pressure and the blade’s end will blunt. Wrong angle and it’ll snap.
The others have the sense to let me work in silence.
If you’ve ever built a jail, you’ll know the deepest hole for the bars always goes at the top. The bar slots into that and drops into a shallower hole in the lintel below. Otherwise the weight of the bars sinks them into the setting mortar.
That’s how these are fixed.
About an inch in, the mortar becomes softer. Between scraping mortar free, I sharpen the point of my knife on the wall beyond the window. I could use the lintel, but the street below is empty and I’m hoping to get out of here without leaving too many clues how we did it.
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Grab this and twist.’
They do, until the bar turns slightly.
So I tell them to twist it back and repeat until I tell them to stop . . .
The room’s hot, the night is muggy in a way only central Farlight can manage, and they’ve been worrying the bar so long sweat runs down their faces and sticks their clothes to their bodies. I can smell Leona from where I stand.
When she thinks I’m not looking, she examines her hands. Their palms are blistered and raw.
‘Piss on your fingers,’ I say.
She thinks I’m joking.
‘Leona,’ I say, ‘you’ve been squirming half an hour . . .’
Now I’ve embarrassed her as well. Can’t think why. You need to piss, you need to piss. She might as well do something useful with it like harden the sores on her fingers. Although, come to think of it . . .
‘Cross your legs for another minute.’
Anton looks appalled.
Sergeant Leona simply nods.
Gripping the central bar, I twist until the muscles lock in my back and ligaments pop in my shoulder. I can almost hear flesh tear.
‘Sir . . .’
‘Almost there.’
With a squeal, the bar turns one complete rotation. And then another and another until I can turn it freely. After that, all Anton has to do is push upwards as he turns it. So the end of the bar buried in the lintel grinds against its mortar.
Eventually the bar works free.
‘All right,’ I tell Leona. ‘Now you can piss. Bring a handful over here when you’re done.’ I’m going to mix it with the grit to make new mortar.
‘We’ll turn our backs,’ Anton reassures her.
I do what Anton suggests. But only because I want a proper look at the wall outside now the bar is gone. I need to know how hard it is going to be for us to reach the roof above.
The answer is, impossible.